


And the Sky's Turned Black

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [16]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Caring Dean, Confused Sam, M/M, Omega Dean, Possessive Behavior, Sad Dean, Sad Sam, Timestamp, Weecest, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-11 01:52:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4416509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam sighs in preemptive exasperation. Wishes Dean would just realize it’s him. It’s just Sammy.</p><p>In which Sam is nine, and there are some things he would really like to know.</p><p>Timestamp, Sam POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Sky's Turned Black

**Author's Note:**

> Title appropriated from the song, The Sun's Gone Dim and the Sky's Turned Black by Jóhann Jóhannsson.
> 
> This song is a work of art, and will inevitably bring you to tears.

Several years ago, when Sam was nine years old , he’d been in a fourth grade class with a kid named Kyle Adamson.

Nice enough kid, shared his Fruit Roll Ups and Twinkies at lunch, asked Sam politely (some kids didn’t), if he could copy off of his spelling test, when the time came. Sam was never particularly bothered if kids cheated off of him.

Usually, he finished too quickly to be of any real aid, or they weren’t really very good at it to begin with.

Sam was ever vigilant of fairness. Everything evened out, in the end.

Kyle was a small blond boy, pinched cheeks and big pale eyes, little girls squirming in skirts, hushed titters reaching their lunch table. Kyle had Polos buttoned up to his neck, wide range of pastels, but he’d always unbutton the top one

_can’t breathe, Sam_

Spread his khakied legs and ignored the noise, unaware that he was All American, idol of that little school in North Carolina. Sam admired him. He liked him well-enough, enjoyed the fact that Kyle could pretty much get away with whatever he wanted, found out later, from Dean, that Mr. Adamson was the superintendent. That made Kyle as good as the Chosen One, in Sam’s book.

Kyle’s mama was real pretty. Eyes were stunning, like the sky right on the edge of a thunderstorm. Her hair was bright blond and she wore it tied up on her head, little scarf wound around her neck, always a different color, lovely noose.

Sam asked Kyle about that one day, very seriously, asked if she was like Fred Jones, from Scooby Doo, cause he always wore one too, except his remained white. Kyle was good about stuff like that. Nodded earnestly, said he wasn’t sure, because Mom hung out with Dad too much to really go out hunting monsters.

Sam thought about that.

He had a really good grasp of cause and effect, back then, considered the idea that maybe she was happier having a family, and raising Kyle,to be too worried about what was in the dark. What snuck up under little boys beds and threatened to consume their souls.

Sam asked Dean about it, the very next day, pushing aside From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. He’d read that one three previous times, at three prior schools, and he really wasn’t in the mood to analyze anything Claudia Kincaid did, anymore.

It was the current book for the advanced Language Arts class into which he’d been placed, and he hated every second of it, couldn’t see why Kyle got to play freeze tag outside (couldn’t dominate, not without Sam’s superior speed), and he had to sit in the musty library with Rachel Dennis and her ‘inner ear problem.’

“Dean.”

Dean glances up at him, face a little pinched, because he doesn’t like sitting still for long periods of time, doesn’t like the Honors Algebra class they’ve put him in. Dean’s good with numbers. Adds up long sums in his head when they’re staying at Bobby’s, spits them out like artificial intelligence.

Sam practices at night, lies on his hands so he can’t use them as aid. Rolls his eyes real far back in his head so he can concentrate, even though Dean says it makes him look like a witch

_male witches are called warlocks, Dean_

but he’s not as quick. He can do it, but Dean beats him, every time.

He thinks that’s okay.

Dean’s gnawing a hole through the number two pencil, periodically spitting out wood shavings. He got an old AC DC shirt recently

_it’s vintage Sammy, ain’t I taught you anything?_

But all Sam knows is that Dean loves the thing, sometimes he puts another shirt on top of it, wears it to school two days in a row. Sam doesn’t tell. He knows all about keeping secrets.  

“What’s up, Sammy?” Dean says, eyes trained on his textbook, crossing minutely as he tries to rush through the explanatory passage. Sam pushes himself up from his side of the table, little short for his age, and it bothers him, because he gets a crick in his neck when he’s got to look up at his brother.

He travels around to Dean’s side and looks at him, askance. Dean glances at his brother, then back down, wedges his pencil behind his ear with a sigh. “C’mere, Sammy.” Sam scrambles up easily, far too agile for his age range, dominates sports with his friends.

Biological Warfare, copyright of John Winchester.

Dean’s arms tighten around him, and he grunts a little as he adjusts Sam’s boy-chubby legs around his own, positions him, just so. Sam wilts a little bit. He might be getting a little too fat for this. Dean hums around him, leaning his left elbow onto the motel table, the rickety piece of furniture trembling before it rights itself.

Sam’s not sure how to start. He knows Dean won’t like this conversation, will get rigid and weird, voice dropping lower, tug at the back of his neck. Sam sighs in preemptive exasperation. Wishes Dean would just realize it’s him. It’s just Sammy. Dean doesn’t say anything, and Sam appreciates that. Dean’s muted green, underneath him, bright eyes, same shade as the seaweed Sam tried to bring along with them from Florida, that one time.

Sam doesn’t think it’s very fair that Dean’s got freckles and Sam’s never had any. And he’s made sure to check. Everywhere. Dean shakes him off when he tries to play connect the dots

_lemme ‘lone, Sammy. You know I hate ‘em._

But he relents, usually, stretches out and closes his eyes, used to let baby Sam crawl onto his belly and attach them with stubby fingers, would only flinch a little if Sam’s fingers were a bit damp. He knew Sam liked exploring. Sam doesn’t do that anymore, though. He’s getting too old, and Dean probably wouldn’t be as patient for it these days.

Dean’s leg is bouncing underneath him, and it’s a tell. Dean’s agitated. Sam cranes his neck over his brother’s book, tucks fleece-like hair behind his ear. “You know this part, Dean. All you gotta do is make the sides match up. Make ‘em even.”

Sam whirls his head around to meet Dean’s eyes. Soft pleased scent emanating from his brother, smells a little like summer and rain. “Fuck, Sammy,” he says, rubbing at his left eye with one hand. “Did I show you that?” Sammy grins, one tooth is growing in faster and he looks a bit like a scarecrow.

“Duh. Three weeks ago. In South Carolina.” Dean snorts, wraps his arms around Sammy, locking him in like a cage and scribbles his answer in the margins. “I’m an idiot. I remember, now.” Dean’s face is fond, half smile playing at his lips.

This is a good time.

“Dean,” he asks, breathes in deep so he’s got enough air to carry on, “Do you think, if mom were here, that she'd be too busy takin’ care of us all, to go looking for monsters?”

There’s a charged silence.

Dean’s not even breathing, Sammy thinks, and he nudges his brother in the chest, forcing out a long _oompf_ sound. “Like Scooby Doo, Dean,” he tries again, a little frantic, heart pumping away in his ribcage. Maybe he didn’t say it right.

Dean’s rigid, chin tucked into his collarbone. “Why’re you asking me this, Sam?” Sam fidgets a little, but Dean’s arms are sealed, and he exhales. “Kyle’s Mama has a scarf, y’know like Fred, on Scooby Doo? I asked Kyle if he thought she hunted monsters, and he said she hangs out with his dad too much to have time for that.”

Sam licks his lips, pulls on his fingers one by one, stretching them out. “Then she’d have Dad to be with. Maybe, take us to school. If she didn’t--” Sam stutter-stops here, knows what killed his mother and left him motherless, too small clothes and white bread breakfasts.

Dean’s shivering, body tucked close to Sammy’s and when he speaks, it’s into the fluff on the crown of Sam’s head, and it tickles, makes him giggle.

“I think,” Dean begins slowly, voice the quietest Sam’s ever heard. “I think that if Mom were here, there wouldn’t be any monsters. Not for us to fight, at least.” Dean pauses, and Sam can feel the press of his Adam’s apple as he gulps.

“I think she’d be whatever you wanted, Sam.”

Dean clears his throat then, turns back to his notebook, renewed energy in the flow of lead against paper, one arm wrapped around Sammy’s tummy, knee still and stiff beneath Sam’s butt.

Mrs. Adamson kills herself later that month, and it’s a huge story, comes out three days before Dad tells them to start packing, they’re going to Tennessee. Turns out, ascots are necessary fashion statements when they’re used to cover up the strangle-marks your husband leaves on you every night.

Dean attempts to hide the news from Sammy, but he’s resourceful, can probably operate a computer better than Dean, already. He doesn’t see Kyle again, after that. The thought saddens him. Wonders who Kyle will play Superman and Batman with at recess, now.

Sam thinks that not having a mother might be the most frightening monster of all.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have any humor, for this one.


End file.
